


The Careful Peace

by heckofabecca



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Black Númenoreans, Gen, Umbar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:39:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4627344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/heckofabecca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inzilbêth, wife to Count Sulemâr of Barazôn, and her older sister Queen Azramith (along with Azramith’s young son Zimraphazôn) are all that remains of the most powerful family of Númenoreans in the south. Sauron’s destruction offers new opportunities for ambitious leaders all over Middle-earth, and Azramith is quick to take advantage of the power vacuum in Harad and Umbar. Meanwhile, King Elessar I of Gondor begins looking to expand his northern kingdom into an empire.</p>
<p>The Black Númenoreans will have to face their Dúnedain cousins once again, and Inzilbêth must turn a reluctant eye to politics to help preserve the careful peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_T.A. 3018_

Forgive my long silence, my dear Azramith, but I cannot go quiet any longer.

There is so little left for me here. Apart from you and my dear nephew, I have lost hope for our people. I cannot see as clearly as you can, but this war does not seem right to me. Peace builds Men up to greatness, but all our people seek is war and conquest. It was Anadûnê’s conquests that led to her downfall. Conquests, hubris, pride, fear…

And the same power that led us astray then leads us now. Our history has been obscured, but I have read of Anadûnê’s fall, and the cause is _Zigûrun_. It was the Wizard who led Anadûnê to defy the Avalôi. If we had not, we might yet live on the western isle.

Whatever might have been, what concerns me is happening now. I would have voiced my thoughts, but they would be treason. I have no voice here, not against the kings. And if I was not seen as treasonous, all would think me a coward. But I am not motivated by fear of Gondor and their allies. If I am afraid, it is only for our people and our city. People speak of revenge, but our greatest enemy is Zigurun.

I know the dangers that face me here. I must do something to counter the Enemy. Will you come?

_Inzilbêth_

\---

Sister,

Why didn’t you say something sooner? I’ve been so worried for you these past few months. You’ve never been so secluded before. Not from me, anyway.

If you’d spoken sooner, I might have advised the kings with your worries in mind. The plans are final now. There’s no changes to be made. Father, Zimrathôn, and their army heads north in a week. The high priest prays for a safe voyage and a quick conquest. The people are wild for victory, and the priest foresees it.

When Father and my husband leave, I will be responsible for the city. I have a responsibility to the people to stay, and I need your support. Whatever your qualms about Zigûrun, his enemies in Gondor are our city’s as well. Everyone has something against them-- Adûnâim, Corsairs, and Haradrim alike. Open support for Gondor would be foolish, now.

We’re too embroiled in this plot to escape now, but I hear you. Once the kings are gone and my seat is secure, I will do what I can to ease your fears.

_Azramith_

\---

Sister,

I’m glad you joined us for dinner last night, but why were you so quiet? Lord Gimilzâr tells me that people say you’re displeased with the campaign, and idle mouths can reach dangerous ears.

_Azramith_

\---

I am no good at lies, Azramith. I can’t fake any pleasure at this point, not even for my reputation. I wouldn’t have gone if Father’s request hadn’t practically been an order. I didn’t seclude myself for so long just to study.

I will make what efforts I can when we see them all off tomorrow, but do not expect much.

_I._

\---

Sister,

I can’t remember the last time you cried! I’m glad you did, though. Now everyone thinks you’re heartbroken at Father’s departure. Which you are, of course, but… Anyhow, Lord G. tells anyone who asks that your seclusion has been driven by grief. Bless the man. His words (and your tears) save you.

_Azramith_

\---

Lord Gimilzâr is generous, but don’t fool yourself that he acts in my interest. It’s your authority he must protect now, and everyone knows how we depend on each other. He explains my actions so that no one questions you.

_I._

\---

I know your queenship busies you, but will you join me for dinner tomorrow evening? I should have realized that I missed you sooner.

_I._

\---

Forgive me, sis! My position needs strengthening before I can do as I like for dinner. Love, _A._

\---

Dear sister,

I know I’ve been busy, but I’m sorry you haven’t come to any of the banquets. Your nephew misses you, and so do I. It’s strange, but even though I sit alone on the dais, I feel less powerful than before. Did I rely so much on my husband’s strength? I hope not.

Now, I lean on Lord G., but rely on you, too. There are matters that I knew nothing of that need quick decisions, dissension that needs to be quashed-- or assuaged. Will you advise me?

_Azramith_

\---

Sister,

They are happy, for now, but a long-term solution has yet to present itself. I don’t suppose you want to marry Lord Aphanuzîr, do you?

_Azramith_

\---

Lord Aphanuzîr would seek greater power if I married him, as I’m sure Lord G. has pointed out. Do not share what power you have, or it will never grow.

...I can’t manage much more of this, Azramith. The new forge smokes and spits through the night, and I hear rumors of more men heading north. Don’t let it happen, sister, I beg you.

_I._

\---

I forgive everything, sister. I hope you may do the same for me. I do not know whether you will be able to. I don’t know if I will ever forgive myself for leaving you, but I can do nothing else.

The night is black, and the tides are good. Goodbye, beloved sister, beloved queen. May peace find you, if it survives.

_I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.  
>   
>  _Translations_  
>  Zigûrun: "the wizard" (Sauron); Adûnaic  
> Avalôi: "the Valar;" Adûnaic


	2. High Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azramith, acting queen of Umbar, takes the city's future into her own hands.

_Two Years Later_

Azramith, acting queen of Umbar, looked down at the man kneeling before the two thrones. Two weeks as prisoner in a decades-old dungeon pit left the priest filthy and ripe, eyes bloodshot and hands shaking. His yellow hair, once nearly as glowing as Azramith’s golden throne, was dusty and disheveled. All he wore was a tattered cloth tied around his waist, and Azramith inwardly smiled at the sight of the brand mark reading traitor still healing on his chest.

One of the guards hit him in the back with the butt of his spear, and the trembling priest fell heavily onto his hands. He whimpered.

Her prime minister, Lord Gimilzâr, stepped out from just behind her. He walked down the three shallow steps that separated her from the other ministers and nodded to the guards, who dropped obediently to the sides. Lord Gimilzâr crouched by the prisoner, who stilled himself with effort.

“Look up, heretic,” Gimilzâr said. “Look up and address your queen.”

“My queen,” the priest croaked, face to the ground.

“Look at me,” Azramith commanded. His head twitched sideways, and he slowly lifted his eyes. He glanced at the empty throne to her left before his eyes settled on hers. She held the latest missive up. “Ask your god what my letter says.” The priest was silent. “I see. Your god told you nothing of our defeat, so why should he bother you with news of his own?” Azramith set the letter onto a platter held out by a slave, who quickly backed away, bowed, as she stood up. “The Deceiver deceives again.”

“My queen, I did not know,” the priest began. Azramith cut him short.

“Your ignorance and your villainy has brought death to hundreds. The blood of high men spilled in a doomed battle.” Azramith glanced at Gimilzâr, whose grim face masked tacit approval. “Our kings stand before the Doomsman because of your council. My father and husband were slaughtered by dead men because they followed your advice.” She turned to look at the twin thrones, one of which was now hers. A look at the pitiful priest made her decision seem more just than ever. “I will not suffer their fate at your hands. Pray to whatever god you think will hear you. Tomorrow, you die, and I shall grieve a little less for my fallen.”

She sat back into her throne, watching impassively as the guards hauled the blubbering priest back to his pit. Gimilzâr looked up at her with a careful watchfulness as slaves and servants ushered the noble audience away for a break in the day’s work.

Azramith waited until the only people left in the room were herself, her prime minister, and the two slaves cleaning the mess the prisoner had left. “You have thoughts, my lord?”

“You gave him little room to explain himself,” Gimilzâr said blandly. “Not that he deserved it.”

“He deserves nothing,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve life, not after everything that’s happened. So many men dead, and not just ours. Local men, too.” She thought a moment. “I can’t quite see that he deserves death, though. If he’d spoken against Sauron, he’d have been killed at once. All the men were wild at the thought of conquering the north. Almost everyone was.” A stray thought of her runaway sister was quickly quashed. “But with Gondor victorious, we need someone to blame for our failures. The people need somewhere to point their fingers at. I’m certainly not going to step forward, are you?” He shrugged, and Azramith plowed forward. “Here is a man who has done wrong by our people-- by our whole city. I will not have him as high priest. The worship of the black gods in Umbar is over. Officially, at least,” she added belatedly. “I would have had him killed anyway, and this way he serves our future, not just my revenge.”

“Quite right.” A pause. “What of your son?”

Azramith paused and steadied her hands. “He is well. His nurse tells me how quickly he is learning his letters.”

“That is… good to hear.” Gimilzâr folded his hands and looked at Azramith until she wanted to squirm.

“What?” she snapped.

“Do you intend to claim single queenship?”

Azramith sank back into her throne, stunned. Single queenship? It hadn’t even crossed her mind. Tradition-- not to mention the law-- preferred a duumvirate. Two kings, shared power, no one family was too powerful. Who was she to go against customs set thousands of years earlier?

And yet there was a legal precedent for a single leader in Umbar. Azramith had never expected to become ruling queen, and thus she was fuzzy on the details. “I had not considered it,” she said. If she wasn’t completely honest, at least she wasn’t telling any lies.

And Gimilzâr, bless the man, was shrewd as ever. “Your son is heir to two kingships, through your father and his. As regent in his name, you hold the power of two… kings. If you so choose, you could consolidate that power.” He pursed his lips. “The other option is to share power.”

Azramith barely heard the last sentence. She could see the possibilities like a great ocean in her head, roaring and immense. Sole queen in Umbar? What couldn’t she achieve? No one would have the ability to forestall her, not even (given twenty years) her grown son. She would have the advantage at every turn. Besides, now she wouldn’t have to pick from a depleted pool of candidates. The war in the north had killed many of Umbar’s finest minds, and she didn’t care to work with anyone who wasn’t her equal. That might even be an advantage-- with so few of them left, the nobles might well accept a single monarch.

She took a deep breath, and her eyes closed for an instant. She saw herself holding a great sword aloft, speaking to her cheering people, with her son looking on proudly.

She reveled in the future for a moment, then turned her face up to her prime minister.

“Lord Gimilzâr,” she said, “was I not born for this?”

Gimilzâr looked at her. She wondered exactly what on her concentrated, eager face made him say, “You were, my queen.”

@@@

Azramith watched with narrowed eyes as slaves carefully bore the second throne from the formal audience chamber. The coronation ceremony was in two days, and she wanted the room ready. It had been nearly a month since her scribes had sent out missives to the surrounding cities requesting ambassadors to reaffirm the treaties set up a generation earlier, and it had been over two months since Gimilzâr had begun his petition to have her crowned sole queen.

Satisfied with the treatment the traveling throne was receiving, Azramith headed towards her son’s rooms. It was almost time for the midday rest, and she wanted to relax for one last hour before she had to study all of the foreign dignitaries’ names.

Zimraphazôn was actually waiting in the hallway for her, and so as soon as she turned the corner, he jumped up and down and gave a happy shout. She rushed towards him and swung him up in the air, kissing his face and chest and stomach as he laughed. He gently touched one of her curls when she settled him on her hip, both of them smiling.

“I danced today, ar-amma,” Zimraphazôn boasted. “Zori-amma says I’m the best dancer.”

“Oh really?” Azramith carried her son into his room and set him down on the plush rug. “Will you show me what you’ve learned?”

Zimraphazôn ushered his mother onto the low couch and gave himself space to dance. Azramith watched as her son, still months away from three, screwed up his face in concentration as he stepped through the first few lines of a centuries-old folk dance. As he finished, his nurse, his zori-amma, came in from her room, connected to the prince’s.

“Hello, Uriya,” Azramith said.

“Ar-Azramith, welcome to our theater,” Uriya said, grinning. Although she was ten years younger than Azramith, the two women looked a similar age thanks to Uriya’s mixed blood. “The prince is turning out to be a fine dancer, isn’t he?”

“Very fine! I’ll have to start practicing more soon, or else he’ll grow more talented than me!”

Zimraphazôn preened and started a new dance, but a knock at the door disrupted the performance. In came a servant, who bowed deeply.

“My queen, a visitor has arrived. Lord Gimilzâr requests your attendance in the blue chamber.”

Azramith’s mouth curled unhappily. “Doesn’t the man know I have little enough time with my son? Who is it? Some overeager diplomat?”

“No, my queen,” the servant said. “Certainly not that. He looked like a traveler. He says he’s a priest. Lord Gimilzâr seems nearly afraid of him.”

Azramith sighed. “Very well.” She kissed her son goodbye and followed the servant back to the blue chamber, one of the more intimate receiving rooms in the palace.

The interruption was more than unwelcome. She hoped Lord Gimilzâr had a good reason for it. She didn’t want to be angry at her prime minister, and she didn’t want to feel guilty for leaving her son so soon. The days when she could spend as much time as she liked with her son were two years gone. She sometimes wondered how long her son would love her the way he did now.

Fortunately, she was announced to Lord Gimilzâr and the traveling visitor before her depressing thoughts got to her.

“My queen, here is a priest come from the east.” Lord Gimilzâr had already come to stand by her side, and Azramith was bemused at the speed he’d taken to distance himself from the priest. The priest didn’t look formidable-- he was just an old man, with brown skin like the locals and a white beard. His robes were dusty and worn, but they were pale blue and looked as though they had once been fine. His hair was wrapped in a turban, and he leaned on a staff.

The old man bowed his head to her. “Queen Azramith,” he murmured.

For all he looked like an ordinary man, she had a sudden urge to return the bow. Instead, she lifted her chin. “You honor us with your visit, priest, but tell me, whom do you serve?”

The old man smiled, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face. “I serve the Great Rider.”

Azramith blinked. “And what is the Great Rider’s steed? Is it a fell beast, or perhaps a mûmak?”

“Nay, his steed is the horse Nahar, who shines silver in nighttime and white in the sun. And his feet are shod in gold.” The old man came close to her. She felt Lord Gimizar step back, but she stood still as the priest came closer to her than most of her subjects would have dared. “Do you know of whom I speak?” She was silent. “The Great Rider is the Huntsman of the Valar. His name is Oromë.”

Azramith had never heard the word _Valar_ spoken aloud, but she remembered it from the books her teachers had pressed on her. “You serve the Avalôi?”

“Yes,” the old man said. “And now, I would like to serve you, as well.” His eyes shone with some supernatural light, and she flinched when he grasped her hand. “For two thousand years, I have waged war with the Shadow. And now that he is destroyed, I see you in my mind’s eye, raising your people to greater heights than they have seen since the Akallabêth. I have seen Anadûnê emerge from the depths through your hands. I have seen you holding a great sword aloft, telling your people of the greatness to come.” The old priest knelt before her. Azramith took a shaky breath and bent to kiss his hands. She made to help him stand, but he rose quickly and smoothly on his own, their hands still clasped. His eyes were dark once more.

Azramith turned to Lord Gimilzâr, who looked more shaken than she felt. “My lord, here is our new high priest.”

Lord Gimilzâr knew better than to question her. He bowed to the old man, who nodded slowly. “I am honored, priest… What shall I call you?”

“My name?” The old man smiled at last, eyes crinkling. “Did I not say I had waged war with the Shadow? Call me Nâlozagar.”

@@@

The coronation ceremony went smoothly. Nâlozagar crowned Azramith on the steps to the palace with the same words used to crown the kings and queens of Númenor thousands of years before. She knelt before the great gilded doors, and Nâlozagar placed the newly-made golden crown on her head.

Azramith stood carefully and arranged her white and golden robes around her. She said a private prayer of thanks. The sea breeze was gentle as she turned to her people.

“For too long, our city has been a vassal to an enemy of Men. I will never subject us to such injustice again. I am honored and humbled to be your queen, and I shall lead you into an age of greatness, the likes of which Umbar has not seen in a thousand years.”

The people cheered and applauded, and a shower of gold-dipped petals fell from above, flashing as they caught the sunlight. She waved to her people for some time before her guards led her back to the throne room.

After she ate a quick meal, Azramith sat in her new crown on her polished throne as her servants led in the foreign diplomats. They would come to her in their little groups, bow or kneel as their culture permitted, and swear to uphold the old treaties. Today was full of formalities, and many of the treaties would be updated in the coming weeks. They all had new worries now.

The servants brought up the ones from farthest away first. First from Khand, then from cities to the south and east and on the river to the north. She thanked them all, and all of them thanked her, and soon the hall was nearly empty.

The last groups all were from cities around the Bay of Umbar. They were small cities, nothing like Umbar’s metropolis, and some only had a single chieftain ruling over a fishing village. But they all had sent an ambassador, for to ignore Umbar was to make an enemy. So it had been, and so Azramith meant to keep it.

The fourth-to-last group came up the steps to stand before her throne. They were from Barazôn, a sizable enough city ruled by five counts. The youngest of these acted as the ambassador. Count Sulemâr, whose father had died in the war, bowed deeply. Azramith looked at him, struck by his youth and good looks. Sulemâr looked to be in his twenties, with the shadow of a beard across his chin and cheeks and lovely golden-brown eyes. He was accompanied by a middle-aged servant, tall and well-groomed, as well as a heavily veiled woman that she took to be the count’s wife.

“Ar-Azramith, I am honored.”

Azramith nodded briefly, gaze flicking back to the veiled woman. “Count Barazôn, I remember your face. You were here not so long ago, were you not?”

Sulemâr’s eyebrows shot up, and he smiled tentatively. “Your memory is very good. I was here seven years ago with my father.” He paused, as Azramith was now openly frowning at the veiled woman. He turned his head slightly. “May I have the honor to present my wife, Countess Barazôn.” The countess knelt and made to kiss Azramith’s feet, but Azramith bent over to stop her.

“I know you,” Azramith said, astonished. “I never thought to see you again.” She took the trembling countess by the shoulders and lifted her up, standing along with her. Azramith took the countess’s veil and threw it over her head, smiling more widely than she had in days. “Sister, oh, sister.”

Inzilbêth stepped back from Azramith, eyes wet, and kissed her sister’s hands.

“My queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _References_   
>  [Adûnaic, the language of Númenor](http://folk.uib.no/hnohf/adunaic.htm)   
>  [a map of Harad, based on canon](http://www.skindustry.net/medem/files/Phase2/MapResources/ProposalMaps/Harad_painted.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> _Translations_  
>  Avalôi: "the Valar;" Adûnaic  
> Akallabêth: "downfall of Númenor;" Adûnaic  
> Anadûnê: "Númenor, Westernesse;" Adûnaic

**Author's Note:**

> _References_   
>  [Adûnaic, the language of Númenor](http://folk.uib.no/hnohf/adunaic.htm)   
>  [a map of Harad, based on canon](http://www.skindustry.net/medem/files/Phase2/MapResources/ProposalMaps/Harad_painted.jpg)
> 
> _Translations_  
>  Avalôi: "the Valar;" Adûnaic  
> Akallabêth: "downfall of Númenor;" Adûnaic  
> Anadûnê: "Númenor, Westernesse;" Adûnaic


End file.
